


Masterpiece of Misery

by TheGoldenFiddle



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Abuse, Domestic Violence, I'm Bad At Summaries, I'm so sorry, It's a little violent, M/M, Poor John, Some Swearing, What Have I Done, You have no idea how sorry I am
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-10
Updated: 2014-12-30
Packaged: 2018-02-24 19:52:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2594285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheGoldenFiddle/pseuds/TheGoldenFiddle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I'm your masterpiece of misery, <br/>From the frame cannot escape."</p>
<p>Everything was fine until it wasn't anymore. Sherlock gets extremely violent and hurts John sometimes. John wishes it would stop, but knows that neither of them will leave.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Masterpiece of Misery

**Author's Note:**

> Oh my god I am so sorry for this. My heart hurt writing this because I never want anything bad to happen to either of these beautiful characters but then this happened. I wish I could say its a happy ending but it's really not. I'm so sorry.   
> The lyrics used for each section are from a song I'm working on right now. I have an addiction. To sad things.   
> I'd love to know what you think of this, even if it is really depressing. Feedback is helpful :)

_I wear the scars like tattoos, imprinted on my skin..._

He looked in the mirror and grimaced as he pulled up the bottom edge of his jumper, twisting slightly and staring at the marks on his right hip, just above his waistband. Small, circular, an angry shade of red; he knew they would heal, eventually, but until they did they would hurt like hell. He didn't truly understand why the cigarettes had been necessary; he'd only been telling his flatmate how bad the tobacco was for you lungs, but the other man had, obviously, wanted to hear none of it. Seven burns, some a bit worse than the others, that was what Sherlock had decided on as he held John down and explained to him that while tobacco was bad for your internal organs, it was much easier to feel the pain on your skin.

John and Sherlock had been in a relationship for about a year and a half, and everything had been fine. Sherlock did what Sherlock does, left experiments in the kitchen, made the flat a mess, stole John's possessions for a variety of reasons. They shared sleepy morning kisses as the sun rose, and held hands walking home from Scotland Yard. Everything had been fine. But then about 4 months ago, Sherlock had started getting really angry for no apparent reason. He hurled abuse at John on an hourly basis, threw objects across the room, tore apart a dictionary on one occasion. The first time he physically struck John came as a shock to them both. He'd apologized profusely, swore to Ireland and back that it would never happen again, and they'd kissed and made up and John believed him. But of course, it did happen again, and again, and as the number of incidents grew, the apologies from Sherlock dwindled, until eventually, like what had happened today, John was the one that found himself saying sorry, even though he knew it wasn't his fault. But taking the blame calmed Sherlock down, at least a little, so he swallowed his pride and admitted defeat.

John knew it wasn't a particularly healthy relationship they were in. He'd treated his fair share of domestic violence cases at the hospital, and knew some of the events were so traumatizing that those involved never truly recovered. But he knew Sherlock would never hurt him that badly. Sherlock loved him. A few cigarette burns was nothing to lose his head over, as long as his flatmate was calmed down now. He twisted slightly in the mirror, searching for other flaws on his skin. There was an assortment of scars from Sherlock recently; the one just below his naval, where he'd throw a metal cased book at John and the edge of it had nicked him. There was one to the side of his ribs, where Sherlock had brought the riding crop down a little too hard just one too many times during as experiment. Shifting his collar aside, he saw another on his shoulder, from the only time John had tried restraining Sherlock after he'd gotten mad. Sherlock had bitten him; drawn blood, broke through skin, and there was a rather sizable mark on his left shoulder, right near his gunshot wound. He went back to examine his new burns.

"John," he heard from the living room, and he couldn't help the involuntary flinch at the man's voice as he dropped the edge of his jumper, hissing in pain when the fabric touched his new wounds.

"Coming," he called back, and exited the bathroom. He saw Sherlock sitting on the couch, holding the cigarette from earlier, now snuffed out, and another cigarette in the other. He raised his eyebrows in question, and Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"I figured since I already wasted half of my cigarette on you I might as well finish it off." John blanched as Sherlock stood and stalked toward him.

"Now hold still."

_Proof of what you've done to me, the evidence of sin..._

John had been reading a mystery novel (one that his flatmate had already spoiled for him but he wanted to read anyway), when he noticed Sherlock's presence at his side. A full body shudder passed through him, and as much as he'd have liked to hide that from Sherlock, he knew it was no use. The detective's unfathomable eyes narrowed and he slid one hand into John's sandy hair, just resting his fingers amongst the blonde strands, and John swallows hard to keep bile from rising at the contact.

"Are you cold, John?" He nearly shivers, because if he wasn't cold before he certainly is now, with that icy voice sliding up his spine and gripping his heart hard. Sherlock sounds as he normally would, calculating, calm, but John can sense the fury beneath it; Sherlock was always angry if John, whether knowingly or not, reacted poorly to his presence.

"A bit," John whispers, trying hard to keep the panic out of his voice as he spoke. He nearly yelps when the grip on his hair tightens painfully, and Sherlock pulls his head back so their eyes meet. His eyes are dark, and suddenly John wants to cry. Not only because of how Sherlock is now, but because he remembers looking into those eyes once and feeling nothing but love and adoration radiating from his very soul. Those eyes used to be warm and caring, and now they're as hard and unfeeling as steel, and John feels fear and loss so powerful it makes his heart hurt. He wonders if its possible to love someone so much and be completely terrified of them at the same time. He knows it must be.

Sherlock scoffed at him and released his hair. John knows that the taller man knew what he was thinking; how afraid, frightened, lost the blogger was feeling. John knew the other man didn't care. He loved John but he didn't care. He felt the tingling in his scalp, and as the detective passed to the other side of the room, he let out a nearly silent sigh of relief. Instantly, Sherlock was back, kneeling in front of John and gripping his wrists together so tightly the bones nearly ground together. John gave a shout of pain and tried to pull away, but Sherlock, as deceptively skinny as he was, was extremely strong and had no problem keeping John hands together.

He pushed the sleeve of John's jumper up, revealing the shallow cuts covering his arms from the various sharp objects Sherlock had thrown at him yesterday. He held onto the bicep tightly, not letting go when John cried out, told him it hurt, begged him to stop. He stared John in the eyes as he grabbed at his wounds, some of them beginning to bleed once more at the pressure being put on them. John's vision started to go black around the edges as the agony tore at consciousness, and he called Sherlock's name several times, trying to get the genius to release him but it was like the detective was deaf. Everything about the man screamed "yes, I did this. And I can hurt you whenever I please, regardless of whether you're afraid of me or not." He continued to hold on until John started to droop in his grip, and then he finally let go.

He looked down at his hand and saw the blood there, and for a moment he looked panicked. But then it passed. He snapped at John, "get this cleaned up, please," and as Sherlock stalked away a solitary tear trekked down the doctor's face.

_You paint your art with bruises and the canvas is my face..._

Sherlock was waiting on the couch when John awoke the next morning, which was different. He was usually gone when the doctor got out of bed, and John was instantly struck with fear so strong his knees nearly buckled. His mind raced, trying to think of anything he could have done that would have made Sherlock angry, mad enough to be waiting before John even got dressed. Had he taken too long making dinner the night before? Was the tea not good? Was Sherlock was generally in a bad mood? That happened often enough; the detective would get bored and throw things at John, mostly as something to do than anything else. Johns eyes darted near Sherlock, trying to see if he had anything heavy enough to really injure him nearby, when Sherlock spoke.

"John. Will you sit down with me, please?" John didn't hesitate; Sherlock may have said please, but the command was still there, and if John didn't listen, then Sherlock would get mad. He walked numbly over to the couch and settled beside his partner, trying his hardest not to cringe and whimper when Sherlock drew him closer. The taller man wrapped his arms tightly around John, and for a split second the doctor thought the man was going to squeeze all the air out of him; hold him viselike, smother him, make him choke on his own fear. But then he realized Sherlock was just hugging him, and he relaxed marginally.

"I haven't been very good to you lately, have I?" John didn't answer, because he didn't know if Sherlock would like his response. He stayed quiet, meek, silent in the detectives arms as he held him. "I truly haven't," John felt mumbled against his skin, "and I'm so sorry." John blinked hard when Sherlock held him tighter, burying his face into Johns shoulder. John broke. This was the man he loved, trusted, had nearly died for on so many occasions. This was Sherlock, and John forgave him, because that's who they were and he would always forgive Sherlock, no matter what he did. He finally turned so he could wrap his arms around the taller man, pulling them closer together. "I love you," Sherlock whispered against his neck, "I love you and I need you, never forget that, and never ever leave. I think it might kill me."

 _Not if you kill me first_ , John's unhelpful mind supplied, and he shook the thought away before it could properly formulate. Sherlock wouldn't kill him, ever, not even on accident. Sherlock would never hurt him that badly. Sherlock loved him. He whispered 'I love you back,' and held Sherlock tightly, because he didn't know when he'd get the chance to do so again. The detective shifted them slightly, so he could place a kiss on John's lips. It was sweet, chaste, like they used to be. It was nice.

Soon though, it stopped being nice. Sherlock bit his lip, asking- no, demanding entrance to John's mouth, and John complied, slightly frightened once more. Sherlock started to lay John back, onto the couch, and John broke the kiss to whisper urgently, to say "no, stop, please" as Sherlock pressed him into the sofa. Sherlock stopped. He pulled away from John, disentangling themselves so quickly John was surprised he didn't get dizzy. Sherlock was glaring daggers at him, his eyes gone that cold, hateful dark grey once again.

"What do you mean, 'no?'" He demanded, pulling back entirely now.

"I just..." John began, but he could tell he'd already fucked up, Sherlock was angry, and oh was John going to get it now. "I didn't mean... Just not now-"

All was quiet for a moment, and in that moment John allowed himself to believe it was over. Nothing else would happen and Sherlock would leave and John could wallow in his misery. But then there was a flurry of movement, and Sherlock fisted his hands in John's sleeping shirt and hauled him off the couch. There was a sharp flash of pain as John was shoved against the wall, face knocking off the edge of a picture frame hanging there. He was pulled back and shoved again, harder, and he bit the inside of his cheek to keep from screaming. He was slammed into the wall several more times, and when Sherlock finally released him, he sank to the floor in a boneless heap, resting on his knees. He could feel the broken capillaries in his face, the bruises rapidly forming, and knew his face would be a painting of blue and purple tomorrow, and his chest hurt, his head hurt everything hurt but his heart, his heart was fucking screaming inside his chest, crying out its anguish as John sat on the floor holding back his tears.

Sherlock knelt beside him, and John didn't even have the strength to flinch away. "I hate hurting you, John," he whispered, and John could hear the remorse in his voice, the sorrow he probably didn't realize was there. "You just make me so... So angry sometimes."

"I know," John heard himself say, though he couldn't feel his lips forming the words. "I know Sherlock, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I know, I'm _so sorry_..."

He sat there against the wall muttering apologies long after Sherlock left the room.

_I'm your masterpiece of misery, from the frame cannot escape..._

John was locked in the bathroom, arms tucked around his knees, face resting against them as Sherlock pounded on the door and demanded to be let in. They had fought, and Sherlock had grabbed John by the shirt, and John had panicked, punched Sherlock in the jaw and ran. He sought refuge in the bathroom because it was one of the only rooms in the flat that locked, and had a thick enough door that it couldn't be broken down. Sherlock had followed him, of course, and was outside the door screaming insults and abuse and hate, and John tried to block it out by clasping his hands over his ears and screaming, but nothing was helping and it was all just so loud and _painful_.

For the first time since this fiasco has started, he allowed himself to break down and cry. Curled up against the edge of the tub, he sobbed, letting the tears wrack his body as he let out months of sadness and loss.

He cried because of what they had become, a monster and his victim, a giant mess of pain and suffering that would only end with broken hearts or bones.

He cried because of what they had lost, a beautiful, loving relationship full of happiness and joy, of walks in the early hours of the morning and fresh tea after cases.

And lastly, he cried because he knew it would never end. Sherlock loved him, he didn't doubt that, but Sherlock loved him so much he'd never let him go; he'd keep John here forever, because the idea of causing the person he loved so much pain was nowhere near as awful as the idea of not having John at all. And John knew he'd never leave either, because despite the pain and anger and heartache, Sherlock was still his. John still loved him with every inch of his heart, every shattered fragment that still clung together inside of him.

John knew that leaving the safety of the bathroom would result in the biggest blowout he'd ever seen, and eventually everything would be ok and if he was really good, if he apologized for making his partner so angry, for causing so much trouble, maybe they would be all fine for a while. He knew by the time it was done he'd probably have broken something besides just his heart, perhaps a finger or two, but he knew it wouldn't go so far as to be fatal. Sherlock would never hurt him that badly. Sherlock loved him.

With this in mind, John wiped away the last of his tears and stood, walking to the door that was still shouting abuse at him, the only barrier between the sanctuary of the bathroom and the furious hurricane just outside. But John knew they'd never get past this if they didn't try, so he braved himself for surrender and stepped onto the battlefield.


	2. In Black and Blue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a few more aspects of John and Sherlock's relationship lately.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok so this chapter is a little longer. And not as good as the last. But I can always come back in and rewrite this when I have time, and when writers block decides to quit being an ass.  
> I hope you enjoy :)

_There's something wrong with us and its on me you place the blame..._

John sat at the kitchen table as Sherlock paced agitatedly in front of him. He kept his head bowed, made sure not to make eye contact, hands clasped tightly in his lap as his partner scowled and cussed and expressed his anger in the way he walked about the flat. There was a loud crash as the consulting detective tossed something across the room, most likely something of John's, and the shorter man flinched in his seat. He still didn't look up though, not when Sherlock let out a frustrated groan, not when he screamed at nothing in particular. It was only when John felt the sting of a palm against his face that he even moved, and then he made the mistake of locking eyes with the furious man in front of him.

Sherlock charged like a bull. He dragged John out of his seat, threw him to the floor, let his fists and feet and any other object nearby fly at the man now cowering at his feet. John bit his lip hard enough to bleed to keep any noises from escaping, because lately showing pain, showing weakness, made Sherlock angrier. He couldn't help the cry of agony that tore from his lips as the sharp edge of a book caught him just below the eye, and Sherlock attacked once more, letting loose and positively wailing on his blogger. John didn't attempt to fight back, just tried to shimmy away, backwards, away from the nightmare making its way towards him.

Just as the blonde was about to stand up, make a run for it, Sherlock wrapped his hands around the shorter man's neck. John found himself slammed up against a wall like countless times before, but this time there was something different about the way Sherlock stared at him. His eyes were empty; there was no warmth, compassion, nothing but a deep rage, a hatred that originated from nowhere. Sherlock's grip tightened around his throat, and John fought to breathe shallowly through his nose.

"This is your fault," Sherlock sneered at him, reaching forward and biting John's fingers, which were attempting to pry Sherlock off of his neck. "It's your fault we're like this. You never do anything right, you're always in my way. If I didn't love you so much I would hate you." He squeezed experimentally, and John let out a choked gasp as his ability to take in oxygen got harder and harder. Sherlock still had that dead look in his eyes, and John thought to himself, _this is it. He's really going to kill me_. He fought valiantly to pull Sherlock's hands off his neck, but the detective held tight. He still fought though. He wasn't going to go down like this. He still had hope that whatever was wrong with their relationship could be fixed, had hope that one day, Sherlock would stop hurting him.

That day was hard to imagine though, when Sherlock's fingers were wrapped around his throat and cutting off his air supply.

When his vision started to go black around the edges, he was dropped unceremoniously onto the ground. He collapsed into a weak pile at Sherlock's feet, bracing himself for whatever pain was coming next. But Sherlock had turned on his heel and left the room, leaving John to wallow in guilt that shouldn't have belonged to him.

_Makeup hides the marks, but it can't conceal the shame..._

"John, you alright mate?"

John jerked in his seat and whipped around to face Lestrade, hands immediately flying to his neck as if to feel for any revealing marks. He knew that feeling his face wouldn't tell him if that was so, but it was a subconscious reaction. He had covered up the bruises from his and Sherlock's fight the night before with a bit of concealer from the drugstore. He felt extremely paranoid; it was as though everyone could see through the tan color, could see the broken blood vessels underneath. Lestrade, admittedly, was understandable. The man was a detective, paid to be observant and notice things, but as Sherlock often pointed out, Lestrade often missed things that were right in front of his nose. But that didn't lessen John's fear that someone would see through the thin layer or makeup, see through the charade of normalcy.

He coughed lightly. "Yeah, fine Greg, thanks. Just had a long night." He gave the older man a small smile, reminding himself not to check around his shoulder for his partner. Sherlock was going over evidence; John was safe for now.

Greg laughed. "Yeah. I'd imagine Sherlock runs you ragged most of the time. How is he, by the way? Still kicking, obviously," he said, with a thumb in the consulting detective's general direction. "But home, I mean. How is it?"

For a split second John thought Greg knew. Greg could tell what had been happening, that Sherlock, with increasing frequency, got angry and took it out on John. And if Greg knew, then being a police officer he'd have to report it, and Sherlock would be locked up, taken away from John for probably a long time. But no, Sherlock didn't deserve that; he was a good man. He'd never hurt John too bad on purpose, because Sherlock loved him. But Greg wouldn't understand that, the law wouldn't understand that. Love doesn't count when it comes to matters of scars and abuse. He reached up and felt once more at the itchy makeup on his skin, feeling like a fool for thinking he could hide the shame.

Because he did feel shame, of course he did. He knew that what had been going on wasn't his fault, but he couldn't help but feel like he was at least partially guilty. After all, it takes two to have an abusive relationship, which meant John was just as much to blame as Sherlock. He was hiding it too, concealing the bruises, hiding the evidence away from people who could, _would_ help him. He knew their relationship wasn't exactly healthy right now, was sick with some twisted, deadly version of the flu, but John held out hope that like a virus, it would run its course and then fade. No point in going into surgery for a cold, right?

"John?"

John started, forgetting where he was for a moment, who he was speaking to. "What?" He glanced around the room, automatically looking to see if Sherlock was present; not finding him, the doctor relaxed in his seat. He turned back to Greg, who was now observing him with a quirked eyebrow and lips set in a thin line. "Sorry, Greg," he started, "spaced out for a second. What did you ask?"

Lestrade stared at him for a moment. "I asked how Sherlock was at home." He shifted minutely, leaning forward just the slightest bit, the look in his eyes that of a worried parent. "Is... Is everything alright John?"

John just sat there paralyzed as he sifted his mind for an answer. He knew that the appropriate answer, the one most beneficial to him would be _'no, everything's not alright, my life has gone to shit and my boyfriend hurts me_.' But saying that would get Sherlock hurt, and that thought alone sent tendrils of guilt to play a violent game of musical chairs around his heart. He opened his mouth, not knowing what was going to come out.

"I-"

"Ah, John. There you are." The doctor turned to see Sherlock, leaning against the doorframe with a raised eyebrow. He saw Lestrade smile out of the corner of his eye, John's strange behavior momentarily forgotten. "Isn't it time we were heading home?" He was sure Lestrade didn't notice, but Sherlock's voice held a dangerous lilt to it, the kind that said to John ' _you're in trouble_.' "Lestrade, I've finished analyzing the evidence. I've recorded the chemical components that were found on the victim's fingerprints, I've left them in the top drawer. John," he snapped, and turned on his heel.

John turned back to Lestrade. "Sorry about him." He gave a weak smile, before heading out the door to face the punishment he knew would be coming.

"And... Everything is fine."

_A work of art in black and blue that spreads across my arms..._

Sherlock was smiling at him. That should have been the first clue that something was off.

John coughed lightly as he caught sight of Sherlock sitting on the couch, a slight upturn on both sides of his lips. He kept his distance, not trusting that he wasn't going to be in trouble. He stayed across the room as he called, "everything alright?" Sherlock turned his head so their eyes met, grin growing just a little bigger, but the taller man said nothing, simply patting the spot on the couch beside him. Never one to disobey his flatmate, John hurried across the room and sat beside Sherlock, the memory of the last time they'd sat in this spot playing in his mind.

"John," Sherlock began, "you know that I love you, and that you are important to my work, correct?"

"Yes," the doctor replied without thinking, because of course he knew Sherlock loved him. He had an odd way of showing it sometimes but he did, and John knew.

The detective allowed his mouth to spread into an all out grin. "And you trust me, yes?" John felt he'd regret it, but again, he'd never go against anything Sherlock said. He nodded slowly, and Sherlock clapped his hands together.

"Excellent," he exclaimed, "now take off your shirt." John's hands moved immediately, working to remove the fabric even as his eyebrows raised in question at his boyfriend. Sherlock shook his head lightly. "I'll explain in a moment, I have to go get something. Please, turn so you're facing the back of the couch, arms spread across the back."

John complied as Sherlock left the room. He sat there, knees digging into the couch cushions for about 10 minutes before the detective came back, and in his hand was one thing John would've been happy to never see again.

The riding crop.

His apprehension must have shown on his face, because he tsked. "John, really. It's for an experiment. And you've had worse." Neither of them bothered to point out that the 'worse' had come from Sherlock anyway. "I need to see if bruises can be placed in a specific arrangement, in a secluded expanse of skin, and if so, exactly how many clearly distinguishable marks can be made. Or, if you like, how many bruises can be fit onto a small area of skin while still being able to tell them apart." He smiled, kicking John's shirt aside and stepping closer to the doctor currently spread cross the couch.

John twisted his head round to look at Sherlock. "I hate to ask," he started, and he really did, because asking questions was sometimes on John's _do not do this_  list when it came to Sherlock. "But, why can't you just have Molly get you a dead body from the morgue?"

Sherlock's smile faltered just the slightest bit. "Why bother Molly when I've got you right here? Now, turn around. And do keep quiet." Knowing that arguing was pointless, John faced the back of the couch once more, barely a minute having passed before there was the sound of the riding crop whipping through the air and making contact with his skin. John flinched. He couldn't help it; the tip of the crop had flicked across his scar. So, that was where the bruises would be.

Fuck.

He couldn't help but whimper as Sherlock continued his onslaught on John's shoulder and down his arm. The skin there was already sensitive, and the detective's actions now certainly weren't making him feel good. There was hardly any break between strikes, Sherlock's arm moving like a machine as he brought the crop down over and over again. John quickly lost count after 25; if Sherlock didn't get the information he needed from this, the doctor would scream. He'd probably wake Mrs. Hudson, possibly Mrs. Turner's married ones, and Sherlock would certainly be pissed, but John needed some way to vent if this kept up for too long.

He could almost feel the bruises forming, the vessels breaking beneath his skin, spreading across the area hit like a paint splatter. _By the time he's done I'll be the perfect impression of Starry Night,_  John thought through the pain, running through the bones found in the foot in an attempt to distract himself.

Finally, after an eternity, Sherlock stopped. He set the riding crop down and leaned closer to John, examining the marks that were already forming on the shorter man's arm and back. "Did you... Get what you needed?" John asked timidly, afraid to raise his voice too loud.

Sherlock scowled. "For now," he replied, "I can wait a bit for you to recover some. But I have to do the other side as well; repetition is key to an experiment. Be ready in half an hour."

"Of course, Sherlock," John whispered as the detective stomped from the room. "Whatever you say."

_And planes of broken skin, impressions of my broken heart..._

"Sherlock!" John called, racing along back streets and glancing in dark alleys in an effort to spot that head of curly black hair. They'd gotten split up just minutes prior, chasing after their latest crook, John holding back maybe a few seconds to move an injured person out of the way; seconds that Sherlock, of course, used to run after the baddie. John had went out moments after, but Sherlock seemed to have effectively disappeared. The doctor kept running though, chasing after Sherlock like he always did.

He heard a shout above his head; they must've been up on the roof. He quickly located a ladder that lead up to the tops of the buildings, scaling it fast and locating the source of the shout. Sherlock and the criminal, just a few feet away from a door to inside the building, wrestling over what appeared to be a compact disc.

Figuring he could help, save Sherlock like he always did, he rushed forward, catching the crook around the neck and attempting to throw him off balance. However, John had overestimated the distance he needed to jump the man, and the criminal easily flipped John over his shoulder-

Right down the stairs into the building.

He tumbled down about three flights before he rolled to a stop, the shock of the fall preventing him from shouting for help. Besides, Sherlock was busy, he wouldn't come anyway. John could feel blood all over his back and legs, where the concrete steps had worn through his clothing (and skin, apparently) when he skidded down them. He was also fairly certain he'd cracked his skull off of something, but it was hard to tell; he tried to move his hand to feel for a head wound but his limbs wouldn't respond to his brains commands. He let out a pained groan, eyes sliding shut as he waited and hoped somebody heard him.

A little while later (it felt like years, honestly, while his everything hurt) there was a clatter of feet on concrete steps. "Idiot," John heard from above him- Sherlock. "I had the situation under control. You got hurt for nothing." There was a moment of silence before one of his eyes was peeled open, and Sherlock's face swam into view. "Are you alright, John?" John tried to answer him but the only sound that came out was a slight whimper of pain. Sherlock nodded. "Of course. I'll call Lestrade, he'll send someone." He rolled John so that he was on his side, wounds no longer making contact with the cold ground before walking a short distance away.

"Lestrade," he heard Sherlock mutter into the phone, but was surprised when the next words weren't _John's injured_. "I've caught the criminal. Well, accomplice. He wasn't the murderer but he's covering for her- yes, Lestrade, I said her, women _are_  capable of killing." There was a pause where Sherlock listened to whatever the DI was saying, then Sherlock said, "of course. I'll see you soon. Oh, and please, send a medic or an ambulance as soon as you can; John's been hurt." John distinctly heard the shout of surprise on the other line before Sherlock hung up. 

The detective must have felt John's stare, because he turned around to face the other man. "Oh, don't give me that look." He leaned down and cupped John's face in his hands, placing a gentle kiss on his forehead. "I promise, you will be fine. I wouldn't let anything happen to you. Lestrade needed to know about the unconscious man on the roof here, and who the murderer really was so he could take the actions necessary. Come on now, stay down," he said, when John tried to sit up, "you're injured. Wait for the medic, please." John could do nothing but comply, shutting out the pain of his injuries in favor of closing his eyes and resting for a bit, but couldn't help feeling he should've been just that little bit more important than the case.

A part deep down inside of himself hoped that when the medics came, and pulled back his eyelids to check for hemorrhaging, they'd see that his skin wasn't the only thing that was torn and bloody; that they'd see through the facade and realize something vital inside of him was broken as well, something stitches and band aids couldn't heal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel bad for putting John through all this crap, but I swear there is a happy ending.


	3. Broken Hearts and Bones

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John gets advice from an unlikely source.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jeez. Have I mentioned lately how sorry I am for all the shit I put John through? Yes? Well here it is again: I'M SORRY.  
> I shouldn't be this tired at only 10 but I am so my apologies for any and all spelling and/or grammar mistakes.  
> This story was meant to be a one-shot. Whoops.  
> Feedback is great!

_And I wondered, was I the one to blame for the things that have gone wrong?_

John sat stoic on the edge of the bed, lost in his thoughts as the sounds of London drifted through his open window.

Sherlock was out on a case, two towns over. He’d taken Lestrade with him, mainly because John had flat out refused to accompany him; he had work in the morning, and as often as he was at Sherlock’s beck and call, he needed to draw the line somewhere.Sherlock had allowed it, but his tone when he left the flat had been icy, a cold promise of pain to come when he returned. John knew it was coming though, because lately everything he did infuriated his partner. If he had gone, he would’ve done something wrong, or not right, or any of the other terms Sherlock pulled from his mental thesaurus when describing John.

The doctor remembered when Sherlock used to say he was fantastic. The days they’d first gotten together, when words like _brilliant_ , _amazing_ , and _beautiful_ were exchanged on a nearly weekly basis over plates of Thai and Chinese, John’s own feelings being spewed back at him from the man across the table. He’d joked one night, _“do you know you do that out loud?”_ And Sherlock had grinned, all teeth and eyes and his entire face, and had replied with _“of course I do.”_ He remembered kisses shared in the early hours of the morning, hugs exchanged in the first streams of sunshine through the window. He remembered the first time Sherlock had commented on the color of his eyes, stating quite vehemently that there was nothing to compare them against. Constant contact in cabs, whether it was leaning against each other or holding hands. Sherlock wouldn’t even look at him in cabs anymore, unless he needed someone to talk to and the cabbie was ignoring him.

John wondered what had happened to change everything.

When he looked back, it seemed like such a smooth transition from normal to not. It was like Sherlock’s hidden anger had managed to seamlessly insert itself in their lives, so slowly but surely that they didn’t notice it until it was too late. John, a doctor who was trained to take note of sickness and injury, didn’t see what was hidden below the surface of the man he loved. It seemed these days he was constantly thinking about why Sherlock was the way he was. He wondered how he missed the signs.

He wondered, not for the first time, if it was his fault.

Just like he had in Lestrade’s office before, he blamed himself, at least partially. He didn’t tell anybody about it. He covered the evidence of it. He defended Sherlock against any abuse hurled his way, even as the same abuse was redirected to John later, when they were alone, when John was still a trained soldier but weak and afraid compared to the hurricane of a man he lived with. It wasn’t just Sherlock’s fault. John had the power to make the pain stop, to free himself, but he still didn’t, Because he loved Sherlock, and wouldn’t wish anything bad on him, loved Sherlock more than he feared for himself. If John fought back, if he retaliated, the detective would be hurt, and that would be John’s fault too, and he’d be no better that the attacker he fended off. No matter what way he looked at it, it was just as much his fault as it was Sherlock’s, maybe even more so-

He needed to leave the flat. Now. These thought weren't good, they'd get him in trouble and god knew he had enough of that already. He needed to leave. He'd go for a walk. Down to regents park, maybe to Angelo's for a drink. He'd come back later, after this train of thought derailed itself and he could focus on more important things, like getting up early tomorrow and being home when Sherlock got there. He'd figure out these thoughts some other time, when he felt he could trust his own judgement.

He hurried down the stairs from his bedroom, pausing only a moment to grab his coat before leaving, leaving the door unlocked behind him. He skipped over the last step, reaching for the handle to the front porch, when he was stopped by a light cough behind him.

"John, dear. What are you doing, going out so late?" Mrs. Hudson stood in the doorway to her own flat, clutched her woolen dressing gown around herself, nightgown visible poking out of the bottom.

"Erm, yes," he muttered. "I just needed to get out for a bit. Too many thoughts in this old head of mine." He smiled weakly, turning back to the door. Mrs. Hudson reached out a hand, wrapping it lightly around his arm and pulling him gently back.

"What about Sherlock, dear? What's he doing?" John flinched visibly at the words, and despite Sherlock's belief that people saw, but didn't observe, Martha Hudson narrowed her eyes at the involuntary movement. "Oh, what has that man done now? I tell you, he's got a way of making things go awry, despite his best efforts. He does mean well but... Well, he's Sherlock." Mrs. Hudson grinned, like she and the good doctor were sharing the most special of secrets, before noticing how pale John had gone. "John, dear, are you alright?"

_So I sought a new opinion as I couldn't trust my own..._

John tried to answer, but when his mouth opened, all that came out was a choked off noise. Mrs. Hudson grabbed his arm and without waiting for permission or consent, dragged him into her own downstairs flat, steering him toward the couch and pushing him so he sat. No time at all had passed before she was pressing a warm cup of tea into his hands, urging him to drink. When he finally took a tentative sip, she settled across from him. "Now then. What ever is the matter?"

John hesitated, much like he had in Lestrade's office weeks ago. How was one to even begin explaining something like this? The infliction of pain, not only on his skin, but so deep into his mind that he could feel it ripping his very soul apart? How could he explain that he loved Sherlock with every fiber of his being even as he felt hate burning hot as the sun? How would someone else understand it if he didn't understand it himself? Because John sure as fuck didn't understand. Sherlock wasn't supposed to treat him the way he did, because that wasn't how people who loved each other showed it. His brain was filled with a whirlwind of thoughts, whipping around and rebounding off each other as he sat there, feeling close to a panic attack. He couldn't tell Mrs. Hudson; Sherlock would find out, and convince her John was lying (or something equally as false, because Sherlock could talk anyone into anything), and John...

John would be in serious trouble.

He was forcibly yanked out of his internal conflict by the touch of a cool hand against his wrist. He looked down to see frail fingers resting lightly against a large bruise on the side of his forearm, from when Sherlock had gotten angry a few nights ago and shoved him against the door, John foolishly trying to brace himself before the impact. "John?" Mrs. Hudson's voice was soft, but there was an edge to it that the doctor had never heard before. He looked up at his and Sherlock landlady to find her eyes glistening with unshed tears. He closed his eyes when he heard the question that he knew had been coming, but still wasn't prepared for.

"Did Sherlock do this to you?"

He felt the tears slipping out from behind his lids, but wouldn't look at her. He couldn't, not now. He was ashamed that she had seen this; the proof of his cowardice, his weakness. He was a fool for allowing himself to be brought here. Mrs. Hudson was going to tell Sherlock, he was sure of it. Say that John blamed him for his injuries, laugh it off as a joke and be unaware of the muffled shouts and thumps from the flat above her as she took her herbal soothers and went to bed. John was ashamed for wishing she would help him. But she'd never do anything to risk her relationship with Sherlock. She loved the man like a son; he could do no wrong in her eyes. John gently tugged his arm away from her grasp.

"Oh John."

He was completely unprepared for two thin but strong arms to suddenly be wrapped around his middle, Martha Hudson sobbing into his shoulder. He sat there awkwardly for a moment before reaching down and patting her arm reassuringly, not really sure why she was acting the way she was. She pulled back, reclaiming her seat in the chair across from him, and mumbling as she wiped her eyes and watched him. "What have you gotten yourself into?"

And John couldn't help tearing his eyes away from hers in shame. She blamed him, just like Sherlock did, like he himself did. It was true, this was all his fault, and-

"John, sweetie, no," came a soft voice to his left, and he realized that he'd been speaking his thoughts out loud. He reached up to wipe away tears he hadn't known were falling, and Mrs. Hudson held his hand tightly. "No, John, none of this is your fault. You are absolutely not to blame."

He blinked, watching her through the remnants of his tears. "I'm- I'm not?" He hated the fact that his voice cracked as he spoke but knew he could do nothing about it.

Mrs. Hudson smiled gently at him. "Never. This isn't something you could have predicted, something you could've fixed alone." She stood suddenly, saying "stay" like he was a new pet, and scurried from the room. Before John could decide if he wanted to leave or not, she was back, with a stack of what looked to be photos in her hand. She held them out, the air around her radiating the grandmotherly _sit-down-child-I'll-tell-you-a-story_ vibe.

_Now I know that this can only end in broken hearts and bones..._

"Take a look here, John," she said, holding out one of the photos. A lovely woman, obviously a younger Mrs. Hudson, was dressed in a simple white wedding gown and smiling brightly. She was standing with a young man in a tux, who had one arm slung casually around her shoulders. They were both smiling, looking quite pleased with themselves, and John thought they looked rather happy together. "This was when my husband and I were first married. This was, of course, before I knew what I was getting myself into. My husband and I, we only knew each other a few months before we tied the knot. Now, look at this one," she demanded, before pulling another photo out and placing it in John's hand.

This one was similar to the other, the first noticeable differences being the change in clothing and the man's arm, held around Mrs. Hudson's waist instead of her shoulder. But with a second glance, there was something off about the photo. Mrs. Hudson, while she was still giving the camera her biggest smile, looked a bit worn. Her smile was decidedly forced, not reaching her eyes like it should've. The man's fingers, where they made contact with her waist, looked as though they were digging into her skin through the fabric of her dress. He noticed, with growing alarm, the faintest trace of a fading bruise on the side of her face. He shook his head hard, pushing the photo back at Mrs. Hudson so he wouldn't have to look at it anymore. But she wouldn't take it, forcing him to hold it in his hands.

"My husband abused me. I married a monster. I didn't know it at the time, because I was young, and in love, but it was there." She held up her hand then, and John noticed for the first time that his landlady's fingers were all crooked, even for an old woman. And the next words out of her mouth made his blood run cold.

"It took this man breaking all of my fingers, and nearly sending my car over a bridge for me to get help. I sued him, for domestic abuse, but nobody believed me. George had contacts, dangerous ones, and was going to make sure he got off Scott free." She smiled wistfully. "But then I met Sherlock, and he helped me. Uncovered all his dirty business and got him sentenced to death. I was sad. I did love George, even through the hurt and the pain. But there came a day that the love wasn't worth the pain. And you need to decide, John, if yours and Sherlock's love is worth it, and you need to decide soon. I don't doubt that that man loves you, but I think the thought of losing you scares him more than the thought of hurting you." She pushed the photo at John again, making him look down at it through his tears. "I don't want you to end up like my George and I." John looked down at the picture again, cataloging the tells that displayed their relationship, and wondered if his own were so obvious.

"I know," the older woman said as she took it back. "I know you can see the signs. To anybody else it's not obvious but you? I may be old, John, but I'm not stupid. You recognize this for what it is because you see the same things every time you look in the mirror. You see the marks of someone who said they loved you, dark against your skin. You see the shame reflected in your own eyes because you can't tell anybody what's happening, because you think they'll blame you as much as you blame yourself." She gripped his hands tight. "But I know too. I'm an idiot for not knowing sooner but now that I do I'm going to give you some advice."

She released his hands and held his face gently in her hands. "You need to get out while you can, John. Or it will kill you both."

"I'd die for him," John blurted, not knowing the words were coming out until they did. "I would, a hundred times over, he means the world to me, I _love him_ -"

"I know, shhh, I know," the older woman soothed, running a wrinkled hand through his short blonde hair as he cried. "I know you do, dear, and I know you'd give your life for him. You've proven it many times." She frowned then. "But giving your life for him is not the same as allowing him to forcibly take it from you. You need to live, John, and you can't do that if you constantly are in fear of the man you love."

_I need to get away, and you need to let me go…_

"I'm afraid," he whispered, his words a ghost drifting through the sitting room. "I'm so _afraid_ , and I love him so much, I don't- I don't want to leave...

Mrs. Hudson stood, going only far enough to place the two photos in a desk drawer before coming back and reclaiming her place next to the doctor. "I know. I know it's hard, John, but there is no other way. And you don't have to stay away forever. I believe Sherlock loves you enough to get help. You can count on me here, dear. When you go, I'll keep an eye on him, make sure he's doing what he need to so you can come home.”

“But,” John started, trembling where he sat, despite the warmth of the sitting room, of his jumper worn tight against his body. “What if he doesn’t? I know he loves me, but he’s said before, I can’t change him. That was before all of this started but i think it applies here too. I… I just don’t know if it will work.” HIs head drooped. “I just don’t know.”

“You listen to me, John Watson,” the older woman commanded, tilting his head up to meet her eyes. “You two are going to sort this out. Sherlock  is going to fix this mess that he’s made, because again I will say: This. Is. Not. Your. Fault. You cannot blame yourself for what he’s done. Look,” she said, and grabbed his wrist again, pulling back the arm of his jumper to reveal his bruise to the air once more. “Is this mark on Sherlock? Is his skin marked and marred because of your decisions? Have you ever once done any damage to his body, or to his mind, that was intentional?”

“No, but I-”

“Exactly,” she shouted at him. “Exactly. You’ve done nothing to him. The only thing you’ve done is allow it to go on as long as it has, but you can stop that. You need to stop it, because if you don’t it will destroy this beautiful thing that you two have, the love that you share. I won’t let you turn out like George and I. I will _never_ see that happen to anyone ever again.” John stood, and waited until she wiped the tears away from her eyes before pulling her into a tight embrace, careful not to hurt her. They stood still together, standing still as statues in Mrs. Hudson’s sitting room, weeping angels sharing their pain while they had the chance.

Finally the doctor pulled away, wiping at his own eyes before stepping back. “Thank you,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “I’ll do it. You’re right. I have to… stand up to him. Leave, if that’s what it takes.”

“I hate to say it, but it will take that, dear. You’ll have to go for him to realize how much he needs you to stay. It’ll give him the incentive he needs to change.” Mrs. Hudson wiped the remainder of her tears away before reaching behind her and switching off the lamp. “Now then. I think that’s rather enough old memories for me tonight.” She smiled weakly at him, reaching out a hand to place on his arm. “You do what you need to do, John. I’ll be here if you need me. Don’t hesitate to ask for help.”

John headed for the door. “Thank you,” he said again, unable to express his gratitude, for her story, her advice, her offer of assistance. “I’ll be in touch. It might take a few days to make arrangements but… I’ll do it.”

She followed him to the door. “There’s a good lad. Please, take care of yourself. Goodnight, John.” He was left standing in front of her doorway, staring down at the doorknob, unsure of what to do. He didn’t want to bother her again tonight, but he didn’t want to go back to 221B. He finally went back to his original plan of walking to Regent’s Park. He zipped up his jacket and stepped out into the cold London air, away from his wise landlady and his home.

While he walked he thought about where he could go. Not any exe’s; they wouldn’t understand what was happening. Absolutely not Harry; she’d be right pissed and demand revenge, but despite it all, he didn’t want Sherlock to be hurt. He needed to find someone who could protect him and Sherlock both, whether it was from the law or each other. Almost as soon as the thought passed through his mind, he received a text. Thinking it to be Sherlock, he cringed before opening it.

_**Should you require aid in temporary or permanent living arrangements, I will gladly assist you. My sincerest apologies for not stepping in sooner; I had not realized how drastic the situation was. My brother will receive whatever help it is he needs, and I can assure you he will remain safe, as will you. -MH**_

John blinked. Mycroft. The text was unexpected, but now that he had an answer he was surprised it hadn’t occured to him sooner. He made up his mind then and there, standing in the middle of the sidewalk at 11 at night.

He was going to leave until Sherlock got the help he needed. He was going to leave the man he loved until he was sure that he could be safe there. And hopefully someday, he could return, and everything would be better again.

Hopefully, Sherlock would let him go.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. I don't know exactly how well I did with the whole Mrs. Hudson thing, but I'd like to think it turned out alright. Of course, other opinions are encouraged and welcome :) I hope you enjoyed this chapter! I've already got the next one written but you'll have to wait for it (SORRY).  
> Please let me know what you thought; what you liked, or what can be improved. I appreciate the comments!  
> Have a nice day! ^.^  
> P.S. I listened to this playlist on 8Tracks while writing. You shou8ld really check it out. (http://8tracks.com/scherbatskaya/thus-grew-the-tale-of-wonderland)


	4. Painted Me the Victim

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The final confrontation. Brace yourselves guys, this chapter hurts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please don't hate me too much.

_Now I wear my scars like medals from the battle that I've won..._

John stood in the doorway to his bedroom, listening to the sounds of Sherlock moving about downstairs. He felt like his heart was going to burst out of his chest; he was so nervous, scared, uncertain of what would happen next. He loved Sherlock, he really did, and he didn't want to leave but Mrs. Hudson was right. He couldn't live in fear of the man that he loved, because the end result would be disastrous for all of them. So he squared his shoulders and snuck down the stairs, pulling himself quietly into the bathroom and locking the door behind him. 

He stared at himself in the mirror. There were a few old bruises, turning a nasty yellow color, and a couple new ones that hadn't been there the night before. He set his suitcase down and leaned forward, assessing the damage his body had suffered over the past few months. He pulled off his jumper, laying it over the edge of the tub, and turned sideways so he could examine himself. 

His sides were a collage of scars. Perfectly circular from the cigarette burns, quite a few from when Sherlock had accidentally scratched him with those ridiculous fingernails, still more from the riding crop and the various objects that Sherlock had pitched at him. He studied his left arm, the one that his partner had gripped and held, had made him bleed, so many nights before. He felt the tears well up in his eyes, but held them back. If he was going to do this, he had to be strong about it, couldn't show any weakness at all or Sherlock would take advantage of it. 

As he stood there staring at his many imperfections, flaws that Sherlock had caused, he was suddenly struck with an inappropriate feeling of pride. Here he was, in a situation where countless people had been before, and he was going to get away from it. He stood there with his scars and felt proud that he wasn't down yet; he held himself tall, steady, and examined his wounds with a new eye, an eye that regarded them as trophies, medals of honor for having survived. He was a soldier, dammit, and hell if this last year hasn't been war. He knew it wasn't over yet though; he still had one final battle to fight, and then he'd be victorious, triumphant, _free._

He squared his shoulders after quickly pulling his jumper back on, unlocked the door, and stepped beyond the safe walls of the bathroom. His flatmate was nowhere to been seen, so he prayed his voice was steady a he grabbed his suitcase and called "Sherlock" out into the flat. A mop of curly black hair popped out of the kitchen with an irritated, "what, John?" without looking at the man he was speaking to, then pulling back into the kitchen. John knew through his fear that this was it. He could retreat now, put all of his things back, pretend he'd never been planning to leave, because as soon as Sherlock saw the suitcase all hell would break loose. Or he could face this head on, and finally escape. 

"Sherlock," he called back out, not realizing he'd spoken until the words were out. "I'm leaving."

There was an unbearable silence surrounding them, filling the air between them, before Sherlock came out of the kitchen. He looked perfectly calm, but John knew this; when his partner was like this was when he got his 'punishment' so badly he could hardly move the next day. John was terrified as Sherlock crossed to the sitting room, relieved when he sat down in his arm chair, a good two meters or so away. Sherlock glanced down at the suitcase, apparently making his deductions, then looked up, his face blank as he said, "are you?" John shuddered; he couldn't help it. He'd learned that that tone meant trouble, meant pain, and his body reacted to it. It was unavoidable. He didn't trust himself to speak now, so he held back a whimper and merely nodded. "Yes," he got out, nothing more, simply staring at Sherlock as he sat across the room. There was a noncommittal 'hmm,' followed by two words John would never have expected. 

"Go then." John gaped as Sherlock's eyes slid closed, not believing it. He could go? Sherlock wouldn't come after him? It seemed too good to be true, but if it was true he didn't want to mess it up. He stood there a moment longer, waiting for Sherlock to say something else, but he remained silent. Finally, he turned, and reached for the doorknob, for freedom. 

John didn't even hear Sherlock move. 

John was pulled backwards by his collar, a choked off gasp escaping him as he was tugged away from his escape. He was thrown hard onto the ground, and had only a moment to breathe before there was a foot connecting with his chest. He cried out in pain, eyes clenched shut, and heard Sherlock above him speaking. "What makes you think I'd let you go?" John was rolled onto his back, hands coming up to protect his face as fists rained down on him. "Are you not grateful for everything I've done? For you, John?" The doctor didn't know how he was supposed to answer when he could only speak in sounds of agony, made even harder by the sudden weight of a foot pressing down on him. 

"You're not leaving," Sherlock screamed, pulling everything off the shelves and tables nearby and throwing them at the body on the floor. John just laid there on the floor, head pounding as evidence of Sherlock's fury rained down on him. He considered giving up, apologizing, hiding in the bathroom once more even though it hadn't worked so well the last time. But he remembered Mrs. Hudson's words: " _you need to get out while you can, John. Or it will kill you both_." He pushed himself up, just the slightest bit onto his elbows, as Sherlock was turned around. 

_I was a pretty piece in your gallery but the show is finally done..._

"Yes I am," he croaked out, and Sherlock spun around so quickly he created a draft, a look of complete surprise on his features. John tried to rise to his feet, but Sherlock was on him again. 

He distantly felt a lamp crash into his skull, but that was hardly the worst thing he'd ever been struck with. Another foot connected with his body, sending him sprawling backwards, further away from the door. "You're mine!" He shouted, giving up tossing things in favor of kicking John. He bent down and grabbed the doctor's face in his hand, squeezing. John kept his face blank, fought the shiver that threatened to crawl down his spine. "You're mine, John," he growled, "I own you, and I won't let you leave this flat ever again if you try something so stupid once more." He released the doctor harshly, aiming one last sharp kick to John's chest. "You're not leaving," the detective snarled down at him, and turned on his heel to continue his experiment in the kitchen. 

John lay there on the floor stunned for a minute. _I am leaving_ , his mind whispered. _I'm leaving and you can't stop me_. He coughed hard, only mildly alarmed to see blood spat onto the floor, and began the treacherous journey of climbing to his feet. His arms wouldn't support him at first, and he fell on his face the first couple times. _I'm leaving_ , he chanted inside his head, giving him the motivation he needed to raise himself onto his forearms. _I'm leaving and you can't stop me, and you'll never hurt me again_. His body dry heaved once, seizing up suddenly and almost making him fall again, but he fought it, pushed up until his palms were planted on the ground. The hardest part was standing. He swayed when he made it to his knees, clutching at the frame to Sherlock's bedroom. Sherlock, hearing John's gasps and groans, came out of the kitchen to see what was going on. 

"What are you doing?" He asked calmly when he saw John trying to get to his feet. He walked over quickly and gave him another sharp kick in the stomach. John dropped back onto his knees. "Stay down."

John felt a tear run down his face as he struggled once more to stand. Sherlock was turned around, and John got up faster this time, having to brace himself against the door frame but still standing, not cowering and whimpering anymore. "No," he whispered, barely hearing himself, shaking his head hard to dispel the thoughts that plagued his mind. "No," he said louder this time, and Sherlock finally turned and looked at him. 

He sighed. "John. I won't let you go." John let out a cry as a book picked up from the floor hit him, but he stayed up. 

"I'm leaving," he said to no one as stood up straight, tried to fight the pain that was coursing through his body. 

Sherlock scowled. He picked up an assortment of items, and pitched them at the injured doctor, a different one for each word. "John Watson. You. Are. Not. Leaving." John stayed up, refused to sink back to his knees like a coward, refused to give up. Anger and rage and sadness bubbled up inside of him suddenly, and the words burst forth without him even knowing what they were going to be. 

" **YES I AM**."

_You painted me the victim but I'm no longer afraid..._

They stared at each other, doctor and detective, as John fought to regain his breath and Sherlock composed himself from the shock. He seemed to realize that using force was not going to work anymore, but he apparently miscalculated something in that big brain of his, because when he tried to step closer to his partner John actually growled. "Stay away," he said forcefully, still trying to get control of the pain. Sherlock tried to speak and John cut him off. "No, Sherlock." The taller man got angry. He rushed forward, ready to restrain John if necessary, show him once again who was in control here. He'd taken maybe two steps when a fist shot out and caught him in the jaw. He stumbled backwards, over the things he'd thrown at John, and fell, landing hard on his back. 

John felt conflicted. Part of him wanted to help Sherlock up, see if he was alright, and make him tea. This reemerged soldier, however, was glad Sherlock was down, was getting a taste of his own medicine. In the end he just stayed against the wall as Sherlock made his way back to his feet, rightly staying a good distance away from John. "Right then," he started, dusting himself off. "What do I have to do to make you stay?"

"Nothing," John automatically responded in a shaky voice, "because I'm leaving." When Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, John held up a hand, still somewhat afraid Sherlock would fly off the handle and attack him again. "I'm leaving and you can't stop me." And in a whisper, almost inaudible- "and you'll never hurt me again."

Something in Sherlock's face softened, and if John didn't know him better, he'd think the taller man was actually sorry, and not just manipulating him. "John, please. I'm sorry." He held out a hand staying in place but reaching for John, trying to break down his defenses. "I'm so sorry, John, and I promise, I'll never-"

"No," John cut him off, leaning heavily against the wall for support, "no, I don't want to hear it. What's the point in making a promise, Sherlock, if you know you're not going to keep it?" Sherlock's lips tightened into a thin line as he fought to control his anger, and John kept on. "I have to go. I have to."

The detective snorted. "Why? What could possibly be a reason to leave me, to leave the man you love? I've done nothing wrong." He crossed his arms over his chest, staring John down as the doctor slowly shook his head. 

"I'm leaving, Sherlock, because I can't handle it anymore." He raised his head to meet Sherlock's eyes. "I'm leaving because this, what's been happening," he gestured between the two of them, "isn't healthy. For either of us. It's dangerous, especially for me, because you can't control your anger enough to remember that I'm supposed to-" He cut off as his voice broke, wavered in the air halfway to Sherlock. "I'm supposed to be someone you love. You're supposed to show me that you love me, that you care."

"I do," Sherlock interrupted, for the first time looking panicked, afraid of losing something important. "I do, I love you John. I don't always know how to show it properly but I do love you, so much-" A sob escaped John, effectively cutting Sherlock off, but no tears fell. 

_I was a masterpiece of misery, and I finally broke away._

"This isn't love," he began, feeling his way along the wall, back toward the door. "I know you love me, Sherlock, I really do. And I know your way of expressing things is warped sometimes but Jesus, even for you. Hitting me, hurting me, making me cry and bleed and never stopping to think about how it's affecting us. That's not how you show love, Sherlock." He finally found the door, and the cool wood felt like a new beginning beneath his fingertips. He reached for his suitcase, closed his fist around the handle and stood. Sherlock finally came forward, stopping a few feet from John, a safe distance away. He looked frightened. _Good_ , John's mental soldier supplied, _now he knows how it feels._

"John," he started, dropping to his knees where he stood. "Please. Don't go. I'll be better to you, I swear. I'll- I'll get help, I won't hurt you anymore, I will try my hardest to fix this. Just please..." He paused, looking up at John, his features genuinely sad, broken. "Please don't leave me."

John felt tears build up behind his eyes at last, but he shook them away. "I have to. I'm sorry but I have to Sherlock. This, this is going to kill me if I stay." He released the doorknob and his suitcase, didn't come any loser to Sherlock but still held a hand out towards him. "I will come back." Sherlock's head jerked up again, stared at John, a hint of hope in his features. "But not until you get help. You need to- to talk to someone, Sherlock. Fix whatever it is that's broken inside of you that's made you this way, because if you don't I will never set foot in this flat again." Sherlock continued to stare, and for a moment John was afraid; afraid this would blow up in his face, Sherlock wouldn't let him leave, or he'd refuse to get help and all of this, the pain and suffering because he loved Sherlock so completely would be for nothing...

But Sherlock nodded. "Of course, John." His voice was steady as he spoke, rising to his feet once again. "I'll- I'll speak to Lestrade. See if he knows of any anger management facilities. Or domestic-" he shook his head slightly, as if the next words pained him to say. "Domestic abuse counselors." He met John's eyes, his own softer than they'd ever been before. "I promise. I'll get better. I'll fix myself, for you. As long as you promise to come home."

John felt a small smile creep across his lips, the first time he'd smiled in 221B for a very long time. "I promise I'll come back when you're better. But not until then." Sherlock nodded, and John finally turned back to the door, pulling it open. He faced Sherlock once more. "I love you," he said, "and I'll miss you every second I'm gone."

Sherlock kept his distance, didn't try to come any closer or embrace the doctor, and nodded again. "I love you as well John. I will miss you too." John closed the door of the flat and walked down the stairs, deciding against speaking with Mrs. Hudson for the moment. He'd call her later, after he got settled somewhere, a safe distance away. He raised his hand to flag for a taxi, and it felt like a salute, to God, to Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson, to whatever unknown powers were helping him get away. He would miss Sherlock, of course, and he truly hoped the other man would seek help so that he could come home and not be afraid anymore but for now....

John Watson was finally free. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so note here; in no way shape or form do I really believe that a person should go back to an abusive partner. I've only done it in story so there can be a happy, Johnlocky ending. Returning to abusive partners = very very bad. Just to make that clear.   
> Alrighty then. So there will be a short epilogue with fluffiness and good feelings all around, and possibly an end chapter with the lyrics to the finished song. Or an alternative ending, if you'd prefer an angsty, not-happy-and-fluffy conclusion. Let me know.   
> I hope you've enjoyed the fic, and have a wonderful day :)

**Author's Note:**

> Again, my sincerest apologies for this. I have never written anything even remotely like this before. I'm not sure how well I really did on the whole domestic abuse thing, so if I missed any important aspects to it please let me know so I can fix it right away.


End file.
